I love Christmas. But I occasionally find myself in a moment of loneliness in the midst of all the crowds and music and noise. When I see pictures of friends with their newborns, home just in time for Christmas; hear couples conspiring about the perfect present for each other; or catch the refrain of a song and am reminded that no-one is thinking “all I want for Christmas is you” the sparkle loses it’s shine. Being in the ever diminishing demographic of single 30-somethings can be lonely. But these moments are fleeting. I’m soon reminded of how much love surrounds me as my Mum calls to double check when my train is getting in, my brother texts to ask whether vegetarians eat gravy, and my friends email checking who is bringing the Gin at New Year. I know how lucky I am and how full of people my life is, and I was reminded of this on my last day of work before the Christmas holiday.
Ron* was a patient I had previously met in clinic. He had severe COPD and lung cancer for which he’d opted not to have treatment. He was admitted the week before Christmas with breathlessness and we were treating him for an infective exacerbation of COPD. We were fully staffed and the team had the ward under control so there was time to do what I wish we could do more often: sit and chat.
Today marks a defining moment in the history of Britain, but looking around you wouldn’t believe it. Today, April 1st 2013, sees the The Health and Social Care Act (HSCA) come into force.
The death certificate of the NHS, issued by the National Health Action Party
Some still believe that those opposed to the HSCA are over-dramatic, reactionary or naive. They will probably dismiss the National Health Action Party as extreme and publicity-seeking as it has issued a death certificate for the NHS, citing the cause of death as the HSCA 2013, with contributing causes including Thatcherism and the failure of New Labour. But it is difficult to see how anything but extreme statements and gestures can capture the attention of the public. Our generation is standing by as the NHS is quietly privatised and I for one am ashamed.
At a party this week I got talking to a friend of a friend who quickly discovered I was a doctor. The conversation changed from which tube lines were running and who had made the delicious chocolate brownies, to the NHS: specifically its failings. I become, not for the first time, an embodiment not only of the medical profession, but of the entire health and social care system. I was charged with defending the lack of care shown by GPs, the apparent willingness of doctors to prescribe pills for anything and everything but never to listen, the lack of a nutritional perspective from NHS practitioners and the poor funding of mental health services.
The NHS is not perfect. I have heard many stories from dissatisfied individuals, and wouldn’t for a moment dismiss their grievances. I have even been known on occasion to spend an entire dinner party lambasting its’ deficiencies. But conversations like this make me wonder about the expectations of the public of this institution of which I am extremely proud. What do they think the NHS is for?